Tuesday, January 06, 2009

What a poem.

VIIby Wendell Berry

I would not have been a poetexcept that I have been in lovealive in this mortal world,or an essayist except that Ihave been bewildered and afraid,or a storyteller had I not heardstories passing to me through the air,or a writer at all exceptI have been wakeful at nightand words have come to meout of their deep cavesneeding to be remembered.But on the days I am luckyor blessed, I am silent.I go into the one bodythat two make in making marriagethat for all our trying, allour deaf-and-dumb of speech,has no tongue. Or I give myselfto gravity, light, and airand am carried backto solitary work in fieldsand woods, where my handsrest upon a world unnamed,complete, unanswerable, and finalas our daily bread and meat.The way of love leads all waysto life beyond words, silentand secret. To serve that triumphI have done all the rest.